


the choices of company men

by dysphoria_of_being



Category: Scandal (TV)
Genre: M/M, i have no idea yet - Freeform, shameless self-insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 16:57:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7446808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dysphoria_of_being/pseuds/dysphoria_of_being
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Jake Ballard becomes Command, he decides to hire some radically new talent... because Jake deserves <em>better.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The Black Box. Has a certain ring to it, Jake thinks; scenarios in his world are often painted black, but rarely turn out box-like. Rarely a neat package, wrapped up and contained.

That's just what they want you to believe on the outside.

Build a box to conceal the ragged edges and chaotic, misplaced walls within. Rhymes with black ops, too: black box. Mysterious  _and_ alliterative. You can be soaked in blood and it won't show up on black.

It's all a lot to process-- a lot to process what came _inside_ the goddamn box, and Jake's working on it, been working his way through those folders all night, but it's maybe too much to process all at once so his strung-out sleepless thoughts are idly wandering to the topics he can really _get a hold on_ \-- namely, a shade of color and a geometric shape. Jake hasn't actually slept in three days.

"Your orders, sir?"

Jake Ballard's green glacier gaze does not waver, but his eyes aren't fixed on Rick's face, nor any specific object in front of him. And make no mistake, that's exactly what this B613 agent is, too-- an object, just another tool in the Pentagon's arsenal.

"Sir! Your orders?"

Finally, Jake snaps to attention; his eyes focus intently on the young man begging him for direction, and only just now, in this moment, does Jake decide which direction to send him. "Find me a brain," Jake says. That's all.

As one of the most well-trained assassins in the world, Rick can utilize expressions on the human face as competently as weapons, and he chooses now to furrow his brow in confusion. Jake knows it was a choice; he's perfectly aware of the control these company men have over their emotions, let alone such visible manifestations. He knows it was a subtle demonstration of disrespect. "Sir? I'm afraid I don't--"

"Yes," Jake interrupts, leaning forward in his chair -- _the_ chair, the finely-crafted, tailored-leather _throne_ behind the desk where Command sits -- and places both hands flat on that desk. "You _should_ be afraid when the word 'don't' comes out of your mouth in this room. I no longer require a gun to end you, soldier-- and I certainly don't need to conceal it behind this desk. Notice my hands are empty?  _My_ hands won't be spilling your blood, when the time comes." Throughout this speech, Jake's gaze retains his trademark unblinking intensity, and Rick actually takes a step back. "And here in Wonderland, time moves a lot quicker than you'd think."

"Sir," Rick utters in the dull monotone of a robot, standing to attention and focusing his eyes straight ahead-- a convenient way to avoid Jake's bone-chilling stare.

"Find me a brain," Jake repeats, leaning back in the throne and lacing his fingers behind his head, settling in. "A _thinker._ Theorist, philosopher, genius lawyer, whatever-- many of the most intelligent people in the world are citizens of this great country, and I want one of them delivered to my office by tomorrow. One with no personal ties, very little media exposure, and no noteworthy political connections."

"An outsider."

"Exactly. An objective party. Find one, and bring him or her in, quietly. Understood?"

"Yes sir!" Rick salutes, and is dispatched.

Unlike his predecessors, all listed and detailed on the dossiers inside that black box, Jake's first real command as Command has absolutely nothing to do with changing the world. Yet.


	2. Chapter 2

There is a young man reclining on an overstuffed armchair in a stuffy library, locked in the classic reader's repose, except for the leg he's got slung casually over one armrest. His hair is too long for his own good and his face, devoid of all expression as his eyes scan the pages open on his lap, is too pretty to be taken seriously. He must appear even younger than he is because late twenties is already plenty young for a renowned professor and this man, this _boy,_ almost looks too young to even be a student.

That's how they know he's the intended target.

Because despite the hippie hair and the youthful glow, he's wearing a finely-tailored suit. Slacks of a silk-cotton blend and a blazer with crisp, flattering lines; not the attire of a student but a well-paid professional, Harvard faculty on retainer. Even though he's slouching all over himself in this private reading room, which is decked out like a goddamn 1950s man cave in dark heavy wood and old maps of Africa, might as well be some antlers mounted on a wall somewhere. Even though he's pretty like a girl and wears his rich raven hair longer than one.

"Mister Julian Donovan?"

Without glancing up from his paperback book, the young man replies calmly, "If you're trying to serve him a subpoena, he's not here."

"Mister Julian Donovan, we need you to come with us."

Now _that_ is a strange enough request to catch his attention. Julian Donovan is not often accosted by plural parties, but suddenly an unknown 'we' has tracked him down in this relatively remote place, approached him politely enough yet neglecting the 'Doctor' honorific for which he is _usually_ sought, and made such a cold and serious demand? Finally, Julian actually looks up, and his eyebrows rise at the group of three very out-of-place, sunglasses-indoors-wearing, dangerous-looking men who are flanking, yes, _flanking_ his armchair. "Or what," Julian wonders, glancing back and forth between them, "you'll shoot me?"

"Yes," the middle one replies, as blandly and directly as one might confirm a drink order to a server.

"Okay," Julian declares, closing his book, "Shoot me."

The man in the suit-- the _spy_ of some sort, clearly-- begins to reach into his inner breastpocket and Julian's shoulders stiffen, what the fuck is even happening right now, why on earth did they jump directly to _public gunshot wound_ from one little suggestion, that must've been the briefest conversation before deciding that murder is the only remaining recourse ever-- but then something changes, and the suit-spy-man pauses. He twists his head slightly, as if canting an ear to hone in on some distant noise, and Julian notices a tiny earpiece speaker glint in the dim light. For a prolonged moment, nobody moves while the inexplicable spook presumably listens to real-time orders delivered right into his head.

"Called your bluff," Julian mutters, mostly just to progress the situation because he suddenly feels like he dropped some acid and forgot and somehow ended up frozen in a surreal mural, a staged photograph.

Sunglasses #1 shifts back to face him and begins, "I am not authorized to end your life at this time--"

"Good to know," Julian interrupts.

"However," he continues unfazed, "I  _am_ authorized to do this."

Obviously, the needleprick comes from behind, too quick and too smooth to notice until Julian feels something sharp in his neck and something cool flowing into his veins. There was barely a rustle of suit fabric, very discreet.

"Son of a--" Julian growls, and then blacks out.


	3. Chapter 3

When he wakes up, when he _regains consciousness,_ he's still seated in a chair. It's a very different sitting experience this time, however, because unlike the plush and soothing leather of the reading chairs in his cushy faculty library, this chair is cold and hard and also _in some kind of military bunker._ There is also a man sitting across from him, but Julian can't study him yet because he's too busy pretending to be intoxicated, groaning and fluttering his eyelashes and rolling his head around on his shoulders, really playing up the whole revival from their knockout shot in order to discreetly observe his surroundings.

"Just a room," the other man offers, and there is very little echo behind his voice; stifled acoustics. They must be underground. "No cameras, no exits." He delivers this information calmly, almost smugly; he knows exactly what Julian is doing, and already knows it will be pointless. "But I  _am_ curious how a Harvard professor has the instincts to check for those things, especially within the first few seconds of recovering from a powerful drug."

Julian drops the disoriented act and makes eye contact. He's younger than Julian expected, and more attractive-- less buzz-cut and wound-disfigured, more boyish and surprisingly amiable in the face.  "My constitution is more ironclad than you think," Julian replies like it's an answer, but it doesn't come out as sternly as he intended. Side-effects of forcibly losing consciousness still haven't worn off.

"Ironclad?" the boyish agent -- CIA? NSA? -- repeats, "That's a funny way to describe your health."

"Maybe it was entendre."

"Well, _the_ Constitution has no bearing on this room."

"Are we off American soil?"

The agent smirks. It's nothing obvious, just a twitch at the corner of his mouth and a pinching of those remarkably full lips, but there is literally nothing else to look at in the small rectangular room besides three plain grey walls and a mirror reflecting the fourth one behind him, so Julian is scrutinizing. "I'm not at liberty to say," Agent Smirks McPouty answers, or rather, doesn't.

Julian takes his time with this, pondering what few details he's been able to observe, analyzing all the data thusfar available to him, and he maintains the Agent's level green stare the entire time. He's preparing a speech in his mind, and when he finally speaks again, Julian launches through his complete thought process. "I think you have a lot of power," he states firmly.

It's meant to be flattery as much as recrimination; in a room like this, it seems that any words can go too many ways, so Julian is trying to keep up by chasing all of them. "Probably more power than I'm aware even exists in any governmentally-funded institution." He shrugs, tilts his head contemplatively. "And that means you don't go rogue.

You _are_ rogue.

You don't need to toss the tech and revert to old-school tactics, you don't need to go underground-- metaphorically speaking--" Julian's eyes dart up and around like he can physically see the layers of earth above them, "--because you already _own_ the ground, and housing an American captive in the kinds of enemy camps that don't follow American rules, Geneva Convention rules, that's just unnecessary.

Not to mention bad business.

So I think we _are_ on American soil-- if not within the borders of the country itself, then somewhere belonging to America... so either way, the constitution still has bearing, here."

"You  _are_ very good," Agent -- just Agent, probably -- practically purrs.

"So they tell me," Julian agrees like it's an established fact; no arrogance to the statement, simply a quick dismissal of this bullshit part of the back-and-forth in the hopes of getting to the point.

"I'm sorely tempted to just sit here and listen to you figure out what's going on, but you've already got the job and I don't have a lot of time, so I'll be direct."

"Job?"

"Job. I want you to work for me, Mr. Donovan, and in exchange, I will work for you."

"I'm afraid I'm fresh out of assassination attempts that I need performed."

"Unfortunately, the world isn't. And I, I alone, am responsible for all of them." He leans forward; earnest, or at least intending to appear earnest. "I need your help."

 _"My_ help? With assassinating?"

Julian's exasperated skepticism is matched by Agent's eyeroll. Yes, a secret government agent just _rolled his eyes_ at Julian. "I need a think tank," he explains. "I need a sounding board, someone I can talk to about the decisions that must be made whose opinion I can trust." Agent leans back in his equally-uncomfortable chair again, studying Julian with appraising but intense, always fixed, green eyes. "And the fact that you are one of the most brilliant philosophical minds in contemporary history...

Is what makes me think you're the man for the job."

"You're new," Julian observes quietly.

Agent barely flinches, hardly hesitates. Just licks his lips for a second of consideration and then admits, "I am."

"How new?" This is a test. Julian's testing him now.

"Two months." He passes. "There was an upset." He shrugs. "But I am Command now and I want... I'm _going_ to make a difference."

Now it's Julian's turn to pass his own test, to talk himself into this, to prove he deserves it. He considers his words even more carefully than usual, pausing long enough to hear the whole collection of them strung together in his head and insure they compose a complete train of thought, rather than a trainwreck.

"...I'm two years away from tenure," is how he begins, after nearly 10 seconds of silence.  "Third-youngest professor ever, in the history of Harvard, to get tenure."  He mentions this like trivia, like it's not really his. "I like it there."  His voice is almost dreamy, lilting with the sad resignation that precedes some predicted loss, but for the life of him, Julian can't quite see what exactly it is he's losing.  It's murky in there, so he talks simple.  "I like educating."

Agent Command opens his mouth to speak again, issue some kind of argument or reassurance, but Julian raises a palm to stop him and barrels on, "It's a very tactile way of shaping the future, you know? You get to experience the effect you have first-hand. It's a _healthy_ experience.

It's... interaction, sharing, communication. _Personal._

You see what you've done because it looks you in the face and smiles, frowns, and at the end of the day you feel... connected." Julian pauses, perhaps to allow Mr. Command the opportunity to make his argument now, but the incongruous boyish openness of his face has returned and he remains silent, this time, still staring Julian in the eyes without blinking, without shifting.

He's _listening._

Not just hearing but listening, genuinely considering, and suddenly this 'thanks but no thanks' speech of Julian's doesn't seem like it should truly be his final answer.

"Not merely involved, as any common interloper, but _connected,"_ Julian soldiers on, half forgetting where he was trying to go with this, because for the first time in his life, maybe he _doesn't_ actually already know what he's up against, what he has to _gain_.

"You touch it."

Maybe Agent Command is a very unusual breed.

"And it touches you. You understand what I'm saying?"

For the first time in several minutes, Agent Command finally blinks. He closes his eyes for one protracted moment of silence like some kind of acknowledgement, and then licks his lips again. That seems to be his tell for an upcoming admission, of something he doesn't want to say or doesn't want to be true.

"You don't like to watch the effect you have on the future from behind a screen," he says, because it's true and he must say it.

Julian likes that about him. "That's right. I--"

"You don't like to be in exactly the position I'm offering," Agent Command interjects, still kind of smugly. Like his ego must always be prepared for bad news.

"I like to _be_ there," Julian continues smooth, ignoring the interruption. "In the thick of it, on the battlefield. I like to _see_ the blood on my hands, not just know it's there.  I need to see it."

For the first time ever, Agent Command frowns.  He's-- he's _curious,_ he's wondering, and it kind of seems to hurt.  "Do you find it easier to wash that sort of blood off?"

For the first time, Julian allows the full potency of his own black, black gaze to bore into the man across from him, burning like coal.  "Yes," he says. 

Just two men in an otherwise empty room, discussing something like fate. 

"You do your suffering in the moment and then it's done.  You've paid for your crime while committing it.  It's an honest way to live," Julian says.

The look on Agent Command's face, the pinched arch to his eyebrows and the candor in his voice and the _pain_ inside his throat, it does something powerful to Julian then.  "We are  _not_ honest," he says, and Julian understands.  "Honestly, we're not."  He looks away.

So Julian makes a bold move, because he understands that it's the only way this wounded patriot of a man, this decorated soldier turned shadowy enforcer, can receive _gentleness._   Julian stands up, right out of the uncomfortable and severe chair he wasn't ever actually tied to, and moves closer.  Agent Command's head snaps back around at the gesture, but he does not react.

Julian lowers slowly to his knees with Agent Command's surprised but clever eyes following him the whole way down, and lays a hand on the man's shoulder.  "That's why you brought me here, isn't it?" Julian asks, gentle.  Urging.  "The price is higher, here. 

Because I think you're buying more than any individual life.  Is that right? 

Here, you buy the world.  And you pay the highest price."

Agent Command just swallows, and closes his eyes.  Maybe everyone in his line of work has a deathwish.

"Do you think I could still work at the university?" is what Julian finally asks.

Agent Command's eyelids open, and his head turns fully to face the young professor kneeling at his side.  "...Yes."

So Julian sighs, and it's his turn to cast his gaze at the dull linoleum floor.  "We'll see if I can handle it."

"Does that mean you'll take the job?"  He sounds... _hopeful,_ genuinely invested.  A little too heart-on-his-sleeve, this one, for the sort of business he suddenly runs.  Not like Julian, which of course is the point.

"I have conditions, you know."  Agent Command nods once, and Julian nods back.  "I'll take the job."

"A lot of things in your life will change," Agent Command warns.

"Ha.  Don't be modest, Mister Command."  Julian rises to his feet, brushes off the knees of his slacks with three brisk sweeps of his hands.  "A lot of things in my life are _over."_


End file.
